by Zoe York
Dust fluttered out of the cabinet when Marat opened it, and there were only three suits inside. The first one had the armpit chewed out and soot stains smeared all over one side. An even more dubious stain in the crotch area prompted him to hand the suit to Striker.
“Uh.” Striker wrinkled his nose. “Combat armor would have been better.”
“Just put it on.”
Marat grabbed a suit that looked like it might fit him. It was almost as grimy as the other one, and stank of stale sweat and fear, but it wasn’t as if he had many options.
“I don’t think you’re going to get another kiss from your cranky girlfriend if you rescue her in that,” Striker said.
Busy buckling his legs into the bottoms, Marat almost ignored him, but his mind hiccuped over one of those words. “Another?”
Dear Buddha, how much had Striker and Hazel heard as they were creeping up on them?
Striker grinned. “There’s no way you’d go through all this for a girl you’re plutonic with.”
“Platonic.”
“That too. Are her lips as sweet as they look?”
“How is it even remotely possible that you outrank me?”
“Seniority, young pup. Now, does this TacZip go in the front or the back?”
Though the waste of time grated on Marat, he helped Striker dress. It was a Herculean task, not only because Striker didn’t know where the zipper went, but because he wanted to get as much of his armament as possible inside of the suit. When they donned their hoods, Marat was pleased at how much they did to obscure their faces, though he didn’t truly believe Wolf’s security would let them inside without asking them to take off their gloves for a chip ID scan. He would hope for extreme ineptitude or extreme gullibility. If neither of those happened, he would hope Striker could blow up a pirate android more quickly than that android could call its boss.
“My flamethrower fits in this toolbox,” Striker said, his voice a pleased purr. He had found some bottles in a cabinet and stuffed them into the box, too, along with a handful of his grenades.
“Fits, yes. Is hidden, no.”
Striker grabbed a grease-smeared rag from the storage closet and draped it artfully over the box.
Marat would have rubbed his face if he hadn’t already put on the helmet. “Let’s go,” he said. He did not give voice to his growing certainty that this would never work. Ying needed help. He had to try.
“After you, fire boss.”
Marat did not jog back to the lift, but only because the cumbersome suit was heavy and lacked motors and mechanization that would have assisted its wearer. It lacked environmental controls for the interior, as well, and he soon grew hot, with sweat dribbling down the side of his face. He reminded himself that Ying was likely in a much worse place and hurried through the corridors as swiftly as he could. He was glad the Albatross was docked on the opposite side of the station from the pirate ship, because he wouldn’t have been surprised if Mandrake had woken by now and sent men out to hunt down his missing people.
Several security guards looked in their direction as they passed, and Marat had to force his hunched shoulders to lower. Any second, he was certain one of them would shout for him to stop. Even if the fire station corridor had been empty, he believed Striker’s sabotage had likely set off an alarm somewhere. Soon, security would be on the hunt for two men in stolen suits.
“It’s down there,” Striker said, pointing toward a faded red B sign over a corridor entrance. His voice sounded in Marat’s ear, over a private comm that connected the suits.
“I know.” Marat made the last turn toward the bank of airlocks.
Several men and women stood guard down the length of the corridor, but Marat’s gaze fastened on a male figure at the end. He groaned to himself. It was one of those androids again. An android would definitely adhere to protocol and demand identification.
Even though he knew this couldn’t work, not without chaos and bloodshed, Marat forced himself to stride confidently toward the pirate’s airlock.
“This where the fire is?” he demanded of the android without preamble.
“Pardon?” It peered through his faceplate.
Marat made no move to accommodate the android by removing his helmet. This appeared to be a slightly different model than the ones they had dealt with before, but he wouldn’t bet that pictures hadn’t been shared around among the pirate’s people.
“Your ship is venting smoke,” Marat said. “Fire is a danger to the station and every ship docked here. You’ll either need to leave immediately, or let us in to inspect the problem and determine whether you need assistance or the fire can be contained easily.”
“I will check on your claim. Remain where you are.”
The android backed several steps into the tube and tapped a comm pin. His voice was too low for Marat to make out, but he knew that alarm he had activated should be flashing on a display in engineering.
“Think this’ll work?” Striker murmured over their private comm. “If not, I can take a shot at him while he’s talking.”
“Wait to give it a chance. Androids can withstand laser fire and bullets enough that he’d make it back inside and warn his people.”
As he finished the sentence, two of those people strolled through the ship corridor that connected to the far end of the tube. They paused to peer at Marat and Striker. Given their tattoos, motley clothing, and belts laden with illegal weapons, Marat had no trouble identifying them as a part of the pirate crew. He and Striker would never get to engineering—or to Ying—if they had to fight their way past fifty men.
The android returned. “We do see that there’s an alarm, and someone from engineering is investigating it. The captain has been informed. He may come to address your concerns.”
“It’s not necessary to interrupt your captain’s sleep cycle,” Marat said, the balloon of panic swelling in his chest. Even with the helmets, Wolf would definitely recognize them. “Just allow us to inspect the unit with your men. We’re trained firefighters.”
The android had doubtlessly already taken a full assessment of them when they walked up, but his gaze shifted toward the toolbox Striker carried. “I’ll need to see your identification before allowing you onto the ship.”
“I was afraid of that,” Marat muttered, his voice soft, just for Striker. He turned to his comrade. “Sergeant, we need to show our identification. What do you think about that?”
“I think my work badge is in this toolbox.” Striker dropped his load with a clank.
Marat stepped forward, hoping to draw the android’s attention. “Here,” he said, making as if to remove his glove. “Do you have a reader?”
“Hold this, will you?” Striker tossed one of the bottles at the android. “It’s in here somewhere.”
The android caught the bottle without taking his gaze from Marat. “I have a built-in chip reader to handle banking and personnel situations for my employer,” it informed him a bland voice. “Place your finger on—” The android looked at the bottle, realizing it was dribbling onto his shirt. “This has the aroma of a petroleum-based product.”
“Yes, it does.” Striker whipped up his flamethrower.
Guessing the android would try to flee for the ship, Marat rammed into it, trying to knock it into the wall and block its escape. Even with all of his weight behind the attack, it barely moved, merely taking a step back. A gout of flames engulfed it and Marat, as well. His stomach clenched with instinctual fear, but the suit took the brunt of the fire, as it was designed to.
“Got trouble,” someone in the ship yelled at the same time as Striker demanded, “What’re you doing, Azarov? Get out of the way, you idiot.”
As Striker aimed the flamethrower more toward the android and less toward Marat, the android leaped for him, yanking a pistol from its belt. Normally, Marat would have helped Striker, but two men leaned into the tube from the ship, both raising laser guns.
With few options, Marat charged them. His own
pistol was zipped into his suit, so all he could do was hope the fire-rated garment could withstand a few laser strikes. He felt like a drunk bear as he lumbered through the tube at his top speed. He didn’t even try to dodge the crimson beams that lanced through the air toward him. He felt them punch into his suit with the weight of bullets, battering his ribs even through the sturdy material, but his momentum carried him forward.
The pirates ducked around the corner at his approach, but they didn’t go far. They backed out of his reach, clearly intending to stay out of his reach, as he leaped into the ship. The scent of smoke reached him, proving there was a leak in his suit and also that he couldn’t take many more hits.
Since the two pirates wouldn’t stay close enough for him to bowl them over, he raised his arm and said, “Maximum suppression, start,” hoping these old suits responded to the same commands as the Fleet ones he was familiar with.
A stream of chemicals shot out of the nozzle built into the sleeve. The men must have thought him unarmed, because they clearly did not expect the attack. They staggered back as harsh chemicals sprayed into their eyes. Marat jumped, his heavy boot landing on one foe’s foot at the same time as he threw his elbow into the pirate’s jaw. The man’s head flew back, cracking against the bulkhead. His hand loosened, his laser pistol dangling from his grip.
Marat reached for it, but the second pirate had recovered from the chemicals enough to fire. His eyes must have been burning, because his aim was off: the laser sprayed the bulkhead instead of striking Marat.
A boom came from somewhere—outside of the airlock? The pirate’s gaze flicked in that direction long enough for Marat to yank away the pistol he had been reaching for. He shot the distracted pirate in the face. The laser blast took him in the eye, a killing blow.
Grimly, Marat finished the other man, all too aware that he had gone past the point of no return. At the least, he had signed his death warrant with Wolf, and at the most... he had consigned Mandrake Company to a war it did not want.
— NINE —
Ying tugged at the flex-cuffs binding her wrist to one of four floor-to-ceiling metal poles at the corners of Wolf’s bed. For the moment, she was alone in the cabin, and she had to make the most of that time. She couldn’t allow herself to be distracted by the various sex apparatuses mounted on the walls, the harnesses dangling from the ceiling above the bed, or the nightstand panel that had buttons labeled with lewd pictographs. She kept her focus on the pole.
The android’s thorough search had robbed her of her poison and left her with uncomfortable bruises. She had nothing that might be used to grease her wrists, not that such tactics worked on the flexible cuffs, anyway. They tightened or loosened to accommodate the size of the captive, not allowing for any space around the skin. She had no hope of prying them off without the key. She most certainly did not have that. She had nothing, not even the robe. The android had cut it off her as part of its search. At least its patting and probing had been as devoid of sexual interest as it had been of humanity. When Wolf came in, it would be a different story.
She looked around the captain’s two-room suite, searching for anything that might be useful. She could reach precious little. If she dropped to the floor and stretched out with her legs, her toes could brush a dresser. It was bolted to the floor, so she could not have kicked it over and knocked out the drawers, even if she’d had more reach. Besides, three terrariums sat on the top, holding occupants that she probably didn’t want to upset. Thanks to logs and rocks and fake plants, she couldn’t see anything moving inside of them, but she guessed the captain kept a few interesting pets. Snakes, lizards, or spiders, perhaps. If the latter, Marat would be glad he hadn’t come along.
“Lucky him.”
The outer door of the suite slid open, and a dark arachnid in one of the terrariums crawled out from under a leaf and across its log. It paused, probably waiting for its master to come feed it. Ying wasn’t a spider expert, though she had worked with some of their venoms to make poisons, but it was a species originally from Grenavine, and she recognized it as a sub-Brohamian web-slinger. It was, indeed, venomous, and unlike the harmless tarantula that had sauntered through the maintenance shaft, its bite could affect humans. It did not usually kill its target, but it could paralyze a small animal and slow a human down, as well. Ying had the sick feeling that Wolf might use it as part of his torture scenarios.
“Are you ready for me, girl?” came the captain’s voice as he stepped into the doorway of the inner room.
He was already unfastening his belt.
Aware of how little time she had, Ying wished she had tried harder to come up with a plan. Unless she could talk Wolf into sticking his arm into that terrarium and getting bitten, she had no idea what to do. Even if both of her hands had been free, she doubted she could fight off the man. Back in the auction room, when he’d been having his androids hold the slaves still, Ying had hoped he might not be much of a fighter, but he had been quick and deadly out by the airlock. She could usually fight off the average man, but he’d clearly had combat training, just like the Mandrake Company mercenaries. Ying gritted her teeth, remembering the way Hazel had flattened her. This night had not been kind to her ego.
“So ready,” she forced herself to say as he removed his boots. “Come over here and release me so we can have some fun.”
“Release you? I was planning to tie more of you down. So we can focus on important things.” He tossed a boot across the room.
Ying settled into a loose-kneed crouch. Even if she couldn’t hope to win, she would fight him with all of her strength. She couldn’t do anything less. Sometimes, if one fought and clawed and bit, one found an opportunity that wouldn’t have come to passive victims.
“But first,” Wolf said, “why don’t you tell me if Sergeant Hazel knew about the poison you tried to smuggle in here, presumably to use on me?” He asked the question casually, tossing his other boot as he did so, but his eyes gleamed with intensity as they watched her.
“Who?” Ying had trouble enough without causing the mercenaries to be blamed.
“The well-armed woman who deposited you on my doorstep. Handsome, muscled, fond of touching her weapons. I would have gladly invited her in if she’d shown an interest—or had fewer friends who would notice her missing.” He smiled, showing both rows of teeth.
“I’m not enough for you?” Ying looked him up and down, in part to distract him from his line of questioning, but also because she wanted to assess where he might be keeping the key to her cuffs. There should be some kind of electronic fob. Perhaps in his trouser pockets? Or that pouch on his belt? His vest, open to show dense muscles and a carpet of chest hair, lacked pockets. No need to stick her hands in there. Thankfully. She had called Marat furry, but surely this oaf was more deserving of that description.
“Oh, you’ll do for now.”
Wolf advanced toward Ying, stroking his hand along the bedspread as he approached. Even though she knew he would expect an attack, Ying did not hesitate to provide it. As soon as he came close enough, she drove a side kick toward his groin. Expecting him to block it, she didn’t fully commit, instead snapping the leg around to hook the back of his knee. He anticipated both attacks, his meaty thigh jerking up like a shield to deflect the blows.
Before Ying could try a third kick, Wolf lunged in, denying her the room to maneuver. She could have backed up a couple of steps, as far as she could go with her wrist fastened to the pole, but she lowered her other shoulder and rammed into him instead. His body was hard under his clothing, and the blow jarred her, but she didn’t hesitate to bring her knee up, trying to twist so she could strike him in the crotch.
His hands came down onto her shoulders like vises, and he deflected her attack once again. She kept her head down, using it to cover the way she slid her free hand into his pocket. She did not have a pickpocket’s deft touch—and it was hard to be deft while trading blows with someone—but she hoped he would think it all part of her attack.
As she tried to find her way to the bottom of his pocket, he hefted her from her feet and slammed her back against the pole. Not finding the key she hoped for, she withdrew her hand. Though he had her pinned and was closing the space between them, she threw her elbow at his solar plexus, again wanting him to think she had attacks on her mind and nothing else. Not that she wouldn’t mind doing some damage to him.
Her elbow struck him a glancing blow, but all he did was chuckle and step closer. He buried his face in her neck, and she winced, expecting him to bite her again. He grasped her breast, instead, crushing it like a cargo loader rolling over an egg. She gritted her teeth, trying to twist away enough that she could snake her free hand around his waist to check his other pocket. She grabbed his crotch on the way, since that was the closer and easier target. Not surprisingly, the sick bastard was already aroused. She squeezed, intending to dig her fingers in as hard as she could, but he backhanded her so hard that her head struck the pole and stars lit her vision.
“Ship’s rules,” Wolf growled, his voice hoarse with lust. “You play nice with my toys.”
Though pain assaulted her, she used the slight separation between them to finish the move she hadn’t been able to manage earlier, slipping her hand around his waist and to that far pocket. She tried to stomp on his foot with her heel to distract him.
“Treating you the same way you’re treating me, you ugly bastard.”
“I’m the captain.” He ground against her, grabbing her around the back and jerking her close. “You’ll treat me like a king. Now get down on your knees, slave.” He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, fingers digging in painfully. “Before we get started, I’ll show you what to do with that particular toy.”
